


Streetrat

by GodofWorms



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Affection, Alternate Universe, Blanket Permission, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Dystopia, F/M, Fluff, Futuristic-Modern, Healthy Relationships, Injustice, Power Imbalance, Segregated Society, Wealth Imbalance, secret pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-25 05:31:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16191074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodofWorms/pseuds/GodofWorms
Summary: Sansa Stark is a poor street sweeper who has less than 100 social credits, putting her in the 5th percentile of society, otherwise known as the lowdowns.Jon Snow is the Lord Commander of the law enforcement - the Night's Watch - and the ruler of all the Compounds, putting him in the 100th percentile.When Sansa is treated horribly by those above her in social class, Jon takes pity on her and offers to employ her, which means an automatic jump to the 20th percentile. Knowing she'd be stupid not to take the deal, Sansa agrees and ends up becoming Jon's personal maid.





	Streetrat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lugubrious: looking or sounding sad and dismal

Sansa watched her tired reflection in the small, cracked mirror above the sink as she brushed her fingers through her tangled hair. It was grimy and unkempt from over a week of no washing, but she couldn't do much to fix that. Her tiny housing compartment, like all other housing compartments in Compound 0, was allotted minimal running water and no electricity or heat. Only the communal buildings had those, but it cost so much to get into one that she could only afford to go once a week or less. Not that it mattered, considering she wasn't trying to impress anyone with her appearance. Marrying someone from her own percentile was the only marriage she'd ever have, and she would quite literally rather die.

After another few seconds of trying to finger-comb her hair into something  _not_  resembling a rat's nest, Sansa gave up to get dressed. She was still in her sleepwear that doubled as underwear - a ragged pair of very short shorts and a flimsy, pale green camisole. All her clothes were old hand-me-downs, holey and faded from several washings. Clothing was part of what denoted social standing, the major indicator being the braided rope everyone was obligated to wear around their wrist. The colour for those of the 5th percentile, the lowest of the low, was red.

That meant everything she owned was minimal, including her clothing choices, so she just threw on the same thing she'd worn for the last few days. The temperature had been cooler lately as the season shifted to Fall, so she'd been wearing her most worn baggy shirt, a dingy shade of yellow, and her coziest zip-up sweater. She tied on her wristband and lifted her hood over her hair before leaving her house.

It was dawn, a sunrise existing somewhere beyond the trees that engulfed her Compound. The guards were patrolling as always, weapons hidden somewhere on their bodies, and most people were already up and on their way to their jobs. Since everyone in Compound 0 was of the 5th percentile, they all had the least desirable occupations in society. Their work consisted of long hours doing dull tasks that were occasionally dangerous and often demeaning. Being of the 5th percentile also meant having no form of transportation, not even a bicycle, so they all had to wake up early to make it to work in time. From Compound 0 to the city, it was a two hour walk.

Rumour had it that Compound 1 supplied its 10th percentile residents with all utilities and they even had hot water on a consistent basis. Plus they got  _bikes_ , so they got to leave for work so much later than Compound 0. She had no idea what sort of homes those in the higher percentiles lived in, but she knew they had to be better than her own. She daydreamed about it sometimes at night after catching a particularly large rodent or lizard crawling around on her lumpy mattress. Daydreaming about it just made her sad, though, so she'd stop daydreaming and just fall asleep, tightly tucking herself in so no creatures could chomp her in the night. People died from animal diseases pretty often in Compound 0, and Sansa would rather not become one of them.

She had one friend in Compound 0 - Jeyne Poole - but the time they spent together was after hours and often during prohibited times. Their compartments were situated right next to one another in the same block of compartments, so it was easy to sneak in and out at night. Since her separation from her family, Jeyne had become the only beacon of light in Sansa's otherwise dreary life, and she didn't think she'd be able to make it without her.

It had been a year since she'd last had contact with her family, but she tried not to dwell on it. They were somewhere in the vastness of Compound 0, somewhere she didn't know and couldn't get to, but it was a small comfort just knowing they were out there. Her older brother Robb was going through the same thing as she was and _had_ been for three years longer. In order to become an independent, contributing member of society, every child in Compound 0 was removed from home once they turned eighteen, and were cut off from their family in order to discourage co-dependency.

So Sansa didn't know what her family was up to. She knew, at least, that they were all alive. Every week, she read the notice board for deaths in their Compound to make sure their names weren't on there. She was always most afraid to see Robb's. He worked underground in the mines, and that was one of the more dangerous occupations. Sansa's, by comparison, was quite easy. She had an assigned set of blocks in the city she had to keep tidy, and while it was the most tedious thing in the world, she couldn't complain. For those in the 5th percentile, it was one of the safer options ... one of the better ones.

By the time she made it to the city entrance, the sun was a lot higher in the sky. It was around 9 am, an ordinary, calm morning. Her shoes were garbage, so her feet hurt after walking two hours in them, but that was nothing new. She revealed the numbered tattoo on her wrist to the electronic scanner at the gates, and as usual, she was taken in a small group with a guard to her work building. Conversation during work hours was prohibited, so she gave the barest acknowledgement to her co-workers before grabbing the massive broom she used for street sweeping. In order to avoid disturbing the crowds of very high-ups, Sansa always swept first thing in the morning.

It was while she was doing that a short while later that she saw the flyer.  _The_ flyer. She noticed it around sometimes, advertising for the tailoring shop on the first block of streets she cleaned. It was a job that required a minimum social standing of the 20th percentile, so Sansa would never be allowed to work there, no matter what. But she liked to think about it sometimes. When she was still living with her family, the one hobby she was allowed was sewing, and she missed it dearly. 

She sighed deeply, pushing the flyer off the sidewalk and onto the street. Distracted, she was a bit jerky with the broom when she pulled it back, and accidentally knocked the handle into a passerby. He stumbled, dropping his briefcase and spilling his coffee down his pants, hissing at the contact. For one long moment, Sansa merely gaped, having immediately noticed his blue wristband, the colour of the 20th percentile. She lurched down to grab his suitcase for him, apologizing profusely, but just when she wrapped her hand around the handle, the man kicked her hard in the arm. Sansa cried out, abandoning her broom to clatter to the ground as she lurched to a stand, cradling her arm.

The man was absolutely seething.

"You idiot!" he spat, turning toward her. "I expect reimbursement for the clothes you've just ruined, you incompetent lowdown."

"I'm - I'm sorry, I didn't--"

He reached out and coiled her hair around his hand, painfully jerking her to her knees. Sansa panicked, grappling at his hand, and he wrenched her head back by the hair.

"Get your hands off me," he snapped, tossing her onto her back, his face tensed in disgust as he wiped his hand off on his jacket. "The council won't accept such insolence. Get up and give me your wrist number."

Terrified of how severe her punishment might be, Sansa swallowed hard and quickly rose to her knees, dropping her head with her shaking hands pressed tightly to her thighs.

"Please," she said, voice wavering. "Please let me make it up to you another way."

She heard the man scoff. "Make it up to me?" There was a pause, and Sansa looked up just in time to see the outrage on his face, his hand raised over his head to strike again.

Sansa cowered, curving in on herself, but an unfamiliar voice broke through the tension from the street behind her and halted her punishment.

"Touch her again, and you will be immediately incarcerated."

Sansa was too afraid to look. The voice was a male's, commanding and confident, so she knew it must have been a guard. That meant she'd be punished as soon as the man from the higher percentile explained what happened. Unable to help herself, Sansa started to cry.

The guard stepped up onto the sidewalk beside her, touching her shoulder in comfort. Sansa tensed, but she knew better than to pull away.

"Sir, you don't understand-" said the man, cowed, which everyone would be when confronted by a member of the guard.

"Harassment is a crime," said the guard, his hand falling away from Sansa's shoulder as he stepped closer to the man. "It is not tolerated under any circumstances, regardless of your standing."

Sansa noticed his shoes then, and her surprise interrupted her crying. Regular men of the guard didn't wear shoes of that quality. She looked up to see the profile of the man just as her attacker spoke again.

"She assaulted _me!"_

Sansa's jaw dropped, reacting both to the lie as well as to the familiar face of her would-be rescuer. She was correct in her assessment that he wasn't a guard. He was much, much worse. Not only did he hold the highest rank in the Night's Watch - the Lord Commander - he was also the acting ruler over the Compounds. He was in charge of absolutely everything. She wouldn't be able to get out of this.

"She assaulted you?" Jon asked, eyebrows raised.

"Look at my pants!" the man cried, grasping the wet fabric and shaking it. "She smacked my coffee from my hand and spilled it all over me! I'm not the one who should be punished!"

Sansa blinked rapidly, looking up at Jon to say something to defend herself, but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out. She was so scared ... she was so scared of making things worse.

Jon hummed softly in acknowledgement. "I take it she did nothing to rectify the situation?"

"Of course not!" said the man. "Why should she care? She did it on purpose!"

Jon nodded and looked down at Sansa for the first time. He was quiet, waiting for her to say something. Feeling trapped, knowing there would be no positive outcome for her either way, she dropped her chin, looking at the ground.

The other man exhaled harshly. "Lord Commander--"

"I saw it happen with my own eyes," Jon said, and Sansa tensed. "I saw this woman accidentally nudge you with her broom, I saw you drop your belongings, and then I saw you abuse and harass her for your own mistake." Sansa's heart rate picked up, and she lifted her head to watch the situation unfold. She couldn't believe this was happening. "Then," Jon went on, face hard, "you lied to me about it."

Quiet whispers and murmuring caught Sansa's attention. She looked beyond the men to see several people along the street and sidewalk had stopped to watch the confrontation.

"Now," said Jon, "as punishment for attempting to deceive a superior, and for the more serious crimes of assault and class discrimination, you have two options." Sansa stared, shocked at this sudden turn of events. The man seemed just as surprised. "You can accept a prison sentence of six months to two years, or you can accept a relegation to a lower percentile; the 5th or 10th, depending on the choice of the council."

It was silent for a long, tense moment, the people around them watching with rapt attention just the same as Sansa. A few seconds later, the man exhaled sharply.

"You can't ... you can't do that," he sputtered, looking around at the small crowd of onlookers for assistance, and then he looked back to Jon. "You can't  _do_ that!"

Sansa didn't know how the man could so openly defy someone who was not only his superior, but also their leader  _and_ Lord Commander. An incensed guard from a lesser percentile would almost certainly increase the man's sentence for such a display of disobedience. But Jon didn't seem very affected.

"If I were you," he said, lowering his voice as he beckoned over two members of the guard who'd been on standby, "I'd think deeply about how your own actions brought you to this point."

The man resisted the guards at first, but when their calm, controlled demeanour quickly turned severe, he conceded. Sansa couldn't imagine herself being that abrasive to a member of the Night's Watch. She'd  _never_ be so irresponsible.

"Deposit him in the overnight cells," said Jon, quietly so their surrounding company couldn't hear. "I'll see to him after I'm done here."

"Yes, Lord Commander."

The guards walked with the man to a patrol car while the crowd dispersed now that the tension was over, a few people casting wary glances back at Sansa. The woman who owned the tailoring shop from the flyer was leaning out of her store, pity clear in her face. Sansa looked away, swallowing the lump in her throat and resisting the sudden urge to cry in humiliation.

Jon crouched down next to her, and Sansa shrunk back, immediately lowering her head.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

She stilled, frowning, and lifted her eyes to see him. His face was kind, holding none of the severity from moments before. Was he ... was he really asking after her welfare? She didn't know what she was supposed to say. Was there a right answer? How did people from the 5th percentile normally speak to the Lord Commander? She wasn't aware of the proper protocol, and she was terrified of doing the wrong thing.

Instead of answering, she murmured her thanks and reached for her broom, hurriedly going back to her task. Jon Snow didn't call her back or say anything else, and she didn't look back to see what he was doing despite her nagging curiosity. It was safer to be the kind of person who stayed under the radar, especially when it came to someone like Jon Snow. Sansa couldn't have another encounter with him like this one. She needed to be forgotten.

She was paranoid for the rest of the day, nervously searching the faces of the pedestrians for signs of Jon on every sidewalk she cleaned. Reasonably, if he was going to punish her, he would have done it when he had her that morning. But Sansa was so used to seeing people being disciplined in her Compound, sometimes even maltreated, that she couldn't shake the paranoia. This sort of thing didn't just  _happen_. Not ever, and certainly not to someone from the 5th percentile. To have a member from the 20th percentile - the 20th! - receive punishment in  _her_ place, it was ... impossible. But it happened. The  _Lord Commander_ had made it happen, and it was incredibly unsettling.

While Sansa knew nothing of Jon Snow besides his role in society, growing up in the 5th percentile showed her that life didn't operate around a framework of justice and morality. It operated around efficiency. It was efficient to have some people live well while others didn't. It was efficient to force the majority of the society into a role such as her own in order to support everyone else. It _wasn't_ efficient for the Lord Commander - one of very few members of the _100th_ _percentile_ \- to go out of his way to personally resolve the conflict between a 5th percentile and a 20th. That didn't make sense. No one was that kind. No one did anything for anyone unless they wanted something in return.

The problem was that of all the things she could imagine having to offer to someone like Jon Snow, not a single one was something she was willing to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the info dump at the beginning of the chapter (aka most of the chapter). I normally do my best to avoid info dumps, but it was really hard to in this fic for some reason. So I just wanted to say sorry for that.
> 
> If you managed to get past it, though, thank you for reading! I greatly appreciate it :)))


End file.
